


Five Stars

by cuteloops



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alcohol, College Student Shiro (Voltron), Driver Lance, Drunk Keith (Voltron), Late night fast food, M/M, Space Dad Shiro (Voltron), background Adashi, responsible drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-13 05:05:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16010879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuteloops/pseuds/cuteloops
Summary: Keith gets drunk and calls for a ride home from the bar. He didn't expect his driver to be this cute.





	Five Stars

After he drains his travel mug, Lance decides that he’s only caffeinated enough for one more trip. In this part of town it won’t be hard to pick up a rider, especially since the bars are about to close. A ride comes through a few blocks over and he accepts, already thinking about how nice it’ll feel to be back in his own bed. He pulls up to the curb, puts Blue into park, and _really_ hopes his rider isn’t part of the large group of frat guys in boat shoes and salmon shorts. But with a name like Keith, it’s almost inevitable. 

So Lance is surprised when a figure emerges from the shadows between two bars and throws his door open, poking his head inside. “Are you Lance?” 

“Uhh, yeah. Keith?” He _definitely_ wasn’t expecting this guy. A mullet? Really? Lance racks his brain. Has he ever seen one in person? And fingerless leather gloves? This guy’s wearing a whole lot of mesh, and suddenly, Lance feels underdressed in his sweatshirt and jeans. Which is ridiculous. He never cares what his passengers think. 

Keith slides into the passenger seat and shuts the door. “I wasn’t expecting you to be this cute.” 

Lance feels a blush creep up under the collar of his hoodie. Is it suddenly ten degrees hotter in here? He adjusts the temperature. “Thanks?” he manages.

“You’re welcome. Thank _you_ for driving me.” 

“Yeah, no problem. It’s, like, my job,” Lance says, unable to come up with anything else. He leans in closer to his phone, examining the route. He curses internally; it’s not the longest drive he’s ever completed - that one was a well-dressed businessman who sat in the backseat, talked on his bluetooth for two and a half hours straight, and then barely even tipped - but it’s longer than he would have liked. He’ll practically drive past his apartment complex and his nice warm bed…

Lance almost breezes through the first stoplight, lost in thought. He puts on the brakes a little too hard to make the light, then holds his breath. But Keith doesn’t react; he’s too busy picking at his black nail polish. 

“So,” Lance begins, “what brings you out here this evening?” 

“Bars,” Keith says. “I just. I love bars.” He leans his head back against the headrest and Lance has to remind himself to keep his eyes on the road because the curve of Keith’s neck is simply _unholy_. 

“Any good recommendations?”

“All of them,” Keith says somberly. “I love all bars. Equally. Except not O’Reilly’s because the floors are sticky.”

“Noted,” Lance says. Pidge and Hunk are going to get a kick out of this one. All three of them drive on the weekends for a little extra cash, then they swap stories back and forth over drinks every Tuesday night. Drunk as he is, though, this guy is right. O’Reilly’s sucks. 

“You know what’s stupid?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.” 

“The concept of ‘girly drinks’,” Keith says, his fingers wagging in the air to emphasize the absurdity of the sentiment. “That’s so dumb. Beer tastes like ass. If I want to get fucked up on liquor that tastes like fucking cherries or some shit, that’s my pregog… pergog… prerorg…”

“Prerogative?” 

“Yes, exactly.” 

“I agree.” 

“You’re very agreeable.”

“I try,” Lance says. Really, it’s just that he doesn’t mind riders like Keith. Every once in a while, an old tourist couple will call for a ride, huddle in the backseat, then loudly complain about the locals. It doesn’t happen often because the Baby Boomer generation can barely send off a text let alone navigate an app, but he wouldn’t exactly call himself _agreeable_ when it does. 

“Agreeable and cute. You just check all the boxes, huh?”

“I don’t know about that.” 

“Lance. Lance, Lance, Lance.” Keith traces the name with his tongue, bounces it off his teeth, curls it around his lips. It’s unsettling, but not unwelcome. It always lifts Lance’s spirits when passengers remember his name. It’s almost like they care about him behind just transportation from Point A to Point B. Almost. “Don’t get so, you know, so _down_ on yourself. You’re cute! You’re agreeable! You’re a good driver! Mostly!”

As if on cue, a sports car veers out in front of Blue. Lance stomps on the brakes and slams his palm on the car horn. “Son of a -- You okay?” He looks to his passenger, but Keith just throws back his head and laughs. 

“I did say mostly.” 

Lance lets himself laugh too. He’s been enjoying his ride with Keith so far. It’s nice to be able to laugh with a passenger; the worst trips are the ones where they sit in the backseat, text the whole time, and barely glance back up at him when he lets them out. 

Actually, that’s a lie. The worst ones are the ones that throw up. 

He side-eyes Keith suspiciously. The guy is drunk, for sure, but he probably hasn’t hit throw-up-in-a-stranger’s-car drunk. He might wake up in the morning and remember he left an embarrassing voicemail for an ex to hear, but Lance is pretty sure Blue’s interior is safe.

“So what do you do?”

“I work in the university’s IT department and drive on the weekends. Are you a student?”

“Oh, no. I’m visiting my brother. He’s a student though.” 

“What’s his major?” 

“Fuck if I know. Astro-bio-micro-chemic-something. Science stuff. Real smart guy, my brother.” 

“How long are you in town?” 

“As long as he’ll let me sleep in his spare room,” Keith says matter-of-factly. “A while.” Then, “We should get drinks sometime, Cute Lance.” 

“So I’m Cute Lance now? I think I like Agreeable Lance better.” 

“We should get drinks sometime, Cute and Agreeable Lance.” 

Lance chuckles. “Maybe.” 

“Do you have a girlfriend?” The question doesn’t feel uncomfortably personal, but then again, Keith has laid himself bare. He’s an open book, so why wouldn’t Lance be? 

“I don’t.” 

“A boyfriend, then?” 

“That’s also a no.” 

“I can’t imagine why.” Lance glances over, fully expecting a sarcastic smirk, but Keith has his head quirked, studying his driver intently. 

He coughs uncomfortably in response. “So have you seen any of the area like, in the daylight? Or do you just go out at night?” 

“I’m drunk, not a vampire,” Keith says. “I like the museums.” 

“Really? You don’t seem like a museum kind of guy.” 

“I love art,” he says. “Even if some of it is dumb and pretentious. That’s my favorite kind of art. Like, did you hear about the art that was just a hole in the floor and someone fell through it? Good art.”

“Wasn’t that Anish Kapoor?” Lance wrinkles his nose. 

“I don’t know. Thought it was just hole-in-the-floor man.” 

“You should look up Stuart Semple, dude. They’ve got this whole art rivalry thing going on. Kapoor’s kind of an asshole, and Stuart Semple is, like, a pigment maverick. He’s great.” 

“I do love a good rivalry,” Keith says. He rests his forehead against the window. Are his eyes really purple, or are they just reflecting the light as Blue passes a strip of fast food restaurants and cheap motels? He sits up suddenly, startling Lance.

“Everything okay?” 

“I’m hungry.” 

“Do you want me to stop somewhere?” 

“Yes.” 

“Where?” 

Keith looks panicked for a moment. “I - I don’t know.” 

“Well, what are you in the mood for?” 

There’s a long pause and Lance has been drunk enough times to know that Keith is carefully weighing every deep-fried calorie-loaded option before reaching a conclusion. “I need a _fucking_ burger,” he decides. 

Lance drives for a couple more minutes before pulling into one of his favorite late-night burger joints. This place is in his top three for sure. Keith steps out into the grating false daylight of the parking lot. For a moment, Lance considers staying in the car, but Keith is definitely drunk enough to be stumbly, so he pulls his key out of the ignition and follows him to the order window. Just to be safe.

“You want anything?” Keith asks.

“I’m good, thanks,” Lance says. Keith begins to slur his order to the unfortunate teenager working the window. Then Lance remembers they have milkshakes, and he has second thoughts. 

“You don’t seem so sure about that,” Keith says, eyeing him suspiciously as Lance fishes around in his pocket for a set of crumpled singles.

“Their chocolate milkshakes are my favorite,” Lance admits. 

“And a chocolate milkshake,” Keith adds, addressing the boy at the window. 

“What size?” the boy asks. 

“Whatever is the biggest one. That one’s the one I want. The biggest.” He slides his credit card across the counter. “Thanks, kiddo.” 

The boy rolls his eyes - this isn’t his first drunk customer - and disappears from the window. 

“Here.” Lance holds out his sad dollar bills.

“No, no, no,” Keith says. “My treat. You’re driving me home, you’re so nice.” 

“I’m getting paid to drive you, Keith.” 

“And now you get paid in milkshakes too. Win/win. Wins all around.”

“Are you sure?” 

“Sure I’m sure. Definitely. You’re a cool dude, Cute Lance.” 

For some reason, Lance doesn’t mind this. He racks his brain, but he’s never had a passenger like this before. He’s had a few nice ones - good tippers, pleasant conversation, travelers with awesome stories - but nothing that felt this sincere. They’re sitting at one of the picnic tables, Lance with his milkshake and Keith with his burger. It’s so… nice. Lance makes a note to adjust Keith’s fare. He should hardly get paid for enjoying himself like this.

“...and that’s why my brother is basically God’s gifts to gays, or something,” Keith finishes around a mouthful of ketchup and pickle. “He’s so great.”

“What did you say he’s studying?” 

Keith scrunches his nose up in thought. He settles for, “a science.”

“Very intellectual.” 

“His fiance is a lucky guy.” 

“Sounds like it.” 

“Do you have brothers? Or sisters?”

Keith tries and fails to stifle a grin when Lance noticeably perks up. “I do! And a couple nieces and nephews. I’ve got a really big family. Growing up, my house was always super loud, and there was always something cooking. I’m a really good cook.”

“Cute, Agreeable, _and_ a Good Cook?” 

“I think Cute and Agreeable Good Cook Lance might be a bit of a mouthful for a nickname.”

“Would you prefer Perfect Househusband Lance instead?” When Lance blushes, Keith nudges him in the side. “Maybe you could cook for me sometime.” 

“Maybe,” Lance says, “but I’m not sure I could top that.” He nods to Keith’s half-finished burger. 

Keith considers this. “It’s pretty good. You’ll really have to bring your A-game.”

“I’ve seen plenty of Cutthroat Kitchen, I think I can handle it.” Lance tries - and fails - to stifle a yawn. 

“We should go so you can get home,” Keith says. 

“Oh, no, it’s…” Lance starts to protest, but Keith is already attempting to finish the last of his burger in one bite. “Wow, okay, not gonna lie, that was pretty impressive.”

“Thanks,” Keith says, and he only stumbles a little on the way back to Blue. 

Keith’s brother’s house isn’t far from the burger joint, and Lance feels a little twinge in his chest when the GPS tells him he’s arrived. He pulls up to the curb, but Keith lingers with his hand on the door, hesitating.

“Do you have a pen?” he asks. 

“Uhh.” Lance casts a glance at his cupholders - which usually hold more of a miscellaneous mix - but there’s no pen there. He unbuckles his seatbelt, leaning over Keith to check the glovebox. “Here’s one,” he says. “There’s like, a 50/50 chance it’ll work.” 

“Those are decent odds.” Keith pulls a napkin from his pocket, smoothing it out on the dashboard. He painstakingly writes out a series of numbers, his tongue peeking out of his mouth just slightly as he concentrates. “Here.” 

“What’s this?” Lance asks, but the flush creeping into his cheeks and wrapping up and around his ears already knows the answer. 

“My number,” Keith says. “Give me a call sometime, Cute Lance.”

 

The lights are on which means Shiro waited up for him. Not for the first time tonight, Keith feels a content warmth spreading through his chest. He nearly trips over the doormat, but makes it into the front hall without too much of an issue. 

“Hello Shiro. Shiro’s Adam.” Keith waves at the two of them, curled up together on the couch, before stumbling on down the hall. Shiro pauses the movie they’re watching - probably _Dirty Dancing_ or _Pride and Prejudice_ or something equally corny - then pecks Adam on the forehead and stands up. They follow Keith into the kitchen.

Keith stares into the refrigerator, brow furrowed. “Did you forget what you came in here for?” Shiro asks.

He nods, and Shiro laughs. “Sit down. I’ll get you a glass of water.”

“Thanks.” Keith sits down at the counter, propping up his elbows and droopily supporting his face with his hands. 

“Did you have fun?” Shiro slides a glass of water over. 

“Yeah. It was good. Good dancing. That bar on Anchor Street played 80s music all night.” 

“We should go dancing,” Shiro says, giving Adam a wry smile.

“Absolutely not,” Adam says. “I’m too old for that shit. I’d throw out my back.” 

Shiro wraps an arm around Adam’s waist. “You are going to be such a grumpy old man. I can’t wait.” 

“Good news. I already am a grumpy old man.” 

“You guys are so cute it’s disgusting,” Keith says before taking a long drink of water.

“Thank you,” Shiro says, beaming. 

“It was not a compliment.” 

Keith goes to take another drink of water, but the glass is empty. Shiro grabs it, refills it, and puts it back down. “C’mon, Shiro, I drank a whole glass.”

“You’ll thank me in the morning, I promise.”

“You’ll thank _me_ in the morning.” Keith sticks his tongue out at Shiro. 

“That doesn't even make sense.” Shiro rolls his eyes, but sticks his tongue out in retaliation the second Adam’s back is turned. 

“Do you need anything to eat?” Adam asks. 

“Nope. Lance let me stop for a burger.” 

“Who’s Lance?” Shiro’s face darkens for a split second, but Adam’s hand on his arm releases some of the tension. 

“He drove me home,” Keith says matter-of-factly. “I called him on an app.” 

“I hear that’s how all the kids are getting around these days,” Adam says. 

“God, Adam, I can’t wait until you’re yelling at young whippersnappers to get off our lawn.” 

“Gross,” Keith says. He opens and closes his hand around the glass of water. “Lance was really nice. And cute. Cute and Agreeable Lance.” 

“Is he a student at the university?” Shiro starts mentally running through his class list, trying to recall a Lance. 

“He says he works in IT. That’s… that’s computers, right?”

Shiro nods. 

“Isn’t there a Lance in the IT department that’s always helping you when you get locked out of your email?” Adam asks, nudging him in the ribs.

“You know what, now that you mention it, I think there is.” 

“He seems pretty agreeable, too.”

“Shiro.” Keith reaches out, clutching Shiro’s wrist. “You’re my brother. I love you. _Please_ forget your passwords. All of them.” 

Shiro ruffles Keith’s hair fondly. “We’ll see.”

Keith holds up the empty glass. “Happy now?” 

“Yeah, I’ll take it.”

Keith slides out of his seat out the counter, rubbing his eyes. “I’m gonna go to bed,” he says. He wraps Shiro in a hug, starts to leave, then gives Adam a hug too. “Night. Love you guys.” 

“Goodnight, Keith.” 

Adam lays his head on Shiro’s shoulder, watching Keith meander down the hall to the spare room. “Takashi,” he murmurs. “The kid’s got it bad.”

**Author's Note:**

> Shiro and Adam are grad students so they both teach classes. Lance doesn't actually drive for Lyft, but it's something similar bc I've never driven for Lyft and ~don't know the rules~
> 
> I'm Cuteloops on tumblr, hit me up! My ask box is always open (and empty)!


End file.
